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But sorrow's sell wears past, Jean,
And joy's comin fast, Jean,
The joy that's ay to last

In the land o' the leal.
Our friends are a' gane, Jean,
We've lang been left alane, Jean,
We'll a' meet again, Jean,

In the land o' the leal.
Now, fare ye weel, my ain Jean,
This warld's care is vain, Jean,
We'll meet, and ay be fain,

In the land o' the leal.

THE HARPER OF MULL.

WHEN Rosie was faithful, how happy was I,
Still gladsome as summer the time glided by;
I play'd my harp cheerie, while fondly I sang
of the charms of my Rosie the winter nights lang.
But now I'm as waefu' as waefu' can be,
Come summer, come winter, 'tis a' ane to me,
For the dark gloom of falsehood sae clouds my sad soul,
That cheerless for ay is the Harper of Mull.
I wander the glens and the wild woods alane,
In their deepest recesses I make sad mane;
My harp's mournful melody joins in the strain,
While sadly I sing of the days that are gane.
Tho' Rosie is faithless, she's no the less fair,
And the thought of her beauty but feeds my despair;
With painful remembrance my bosom is full,
And weary of life is the Harper of Mull.
As slumb'ring I lay by the dark mountain stream,
My lovely young Rosie appear'd in my dream;

my

I thought her still kind, and I ne'er was sae blest, As in fancy I clasp'd the dear nymph to my breast. Thou false fleeting vision, too soon thou wert o'er; Thou wak’d'st me to tortures unequall'd before; But death's silent slumbers my griefs soon shall lull, And the green grass wave over the Harper of Mull. *

* At a convivial meeting, where ROBERT TANNAHILL was present, a dispute arose about the chastity of the fair, and their fidelity to the marriage vow. ROBERT, although disappointed in the only amour in which he was ever engaged, supported their cause with a firmness and zeal which he was not always accustomed to exhibit. His opponent, who laboured under the gloom of disappointment, wishing to support his argument by example, hurried over a long list of unfaithfuls, and ended his harangue by reciting the infidelity of Rosie, and the sorrows of the unhappy Harper of Mull. The Bard listened with attention ; and such was the impression made on his mind, that in a few days he presented his friends with the above beautiful song. The original story is long and interesting, occupying many pages of the Bee, a periodical work published a number of years since in Edinburgh. It is briefly as follows:-" In the island of Mull lived a harper, conspicuous for nothing so much as his exquisite performance on that instrument, and his attachment to a lovely rosy-cheeked nymph, who was esteemed by the inhabitants of the island as the sweetest object ever formed by the hand of nature. As the har. per was universally esteemed and admired for his sprightly appearance, and the affectionate simplicity of his manners, he soon gained the heart of his Rosie, and in a few weeks after he made her his bride. Soon after the nuptial ceremony was performed, he set out on a visit to some low country friends, accompanied by his Rosie, and his harp, which had been a companion to him in all his journies for many years. Overtaken by the shades of night, in a solitary part of the country, a cold and shivering faintness fell upon Rosie, and she sunk almost lifeless into the harper's

His tartan plaid he unbound from his arm, and hastily wrapped it round her shivering frame, but the cold sweat still

arms.

ELIZA.

TUNE“ Gilderoy.
From thee, Eliza, I must go,

And from my native shore;
The cruel fates between us throw

A boundless ocean's roar:
But boundless oceans, roaring wide,

Between my love and me,
They never, never can divide

My heart and soul from thee.
Farewell, farewell, Eliza dear,

The maid that I adore !
A boding voice is in my ear,

We part to meet no more!
But the last throb that leaves my heart,

While death stands victor by,
That throb, Eliza, is thy part,

And thine that latest sigh. gathered on her bloodless cheek, like the silver dew on the lily's leaf. Distracted and alarmed, he hurried in wild disorder from place to place, in search of fuel to revive the dying ember of life. None could be found. His harp lay carelessly on the grass. Its neglected strings vibrated to the blast. The harper loved it dear as his own life, but he loved his Rosie better than either. His nervous arms were applied to its sides, and in a few minutes it lay crackling on the heath. Rosie soon revived, and résumed her journey as soon as morning began to purple the east. Stepping down the sloping side of a hill, they were met by a hunter on horseback, who addressed Rosie in the style of an old and familiar friend. The harper, innocent himself, and unsuspicious of others, paced slowly down the hill. Wondering at his Rosie's delay, he turned round and saw the faithless fair seated on the hunter's steed. The horse flew swift as the wind. The harper, transfixed in astonishment, gazed at them. Then pacing heavily home, he, sighing, exclaimed, Fool that I was to burn my HARP for her.'»

MAGGIE LAUDER.

WHA wadna be in love

Wi' bonnie Maggie Lauder; A piper met her gaun to Fife,

And spier'd what was't they ca'd her?
Right scornfully she answer'd him,

Begone, you hallanshaker;
Jog on your gate, you bladderskate,

My name is Maggie Lauder.

Maggie, quoth he, and by my bags,

I'm fidging fain to see thee; Sit down by me, my bonnie bird,

In troth I winna steer thee : For I'm a piper to my trade,

My name is Rob the Ranter; The lasses loup as they were daft,

When I blaw up my chanter.

Piper, quoth Meg, hae you your bags ?

Or is your drone in order?
If you be Rob, I've heard of you,

Live you upon the border ?
The lasses a', baith far and near,

Hae heard of Rob the Ranter;
I'll shake my foot wi' right good-will,

Gif you'll blaw up your chanter.

Then to his bags he flew wi' speed,

About the drone he twisted;
Meg up and wallop'd o'er the green,

For brawly could she frisk it.
Weel done, quoth he: play up, quoth she:

Weel bob’d, quoth Rob the Ranter ; 'Tis worth my while to play, indeed,

When I hae sic a dancer.

Weel hae you play'd your part, quoth Meg,

Your cheeks are like the crimson ;
There's nane in Scotland plays sae weel,

Since we lost Habby Simpson.
I've liv’d in Fife, baith maid and wife,

These ten years and a quarter;
Gin you should come to Anster fair,

Spier ye for Maggie Lauder.

The cantie spring scarce rear'd her head,

And winter yet did blaud her,
When the Ranter cam to Anster fair,

An' spier'd for Maggy Lauder ;
A snug wee house in the East Green,

It's shelter kindly lent her;
Wi' cantie ingle, clean hearth stane,

Meg welcom'd Rob the Ranter !
Then Rob made bonnie Meg his bride,

An' to the kirk they ranted;
He play'd the auld “ East Nook o' Fife,"

An' merry Maggie vaunted,
That Hab himsel' ne'er play'd a spring,

Nor blew sae weel his chanter,
For he made Anster town to ring;

An' wha's like Rob the Ranter!

For a' the talk an' loud reports

That ever gaed against her,
Meg proves a true an' carefu' wife,

As ever was in Anster;
An' since the marriage knot was ty'd,

Rob swears he couldna want her,
For he lo’es Maggy as his life,

An' Meg lo’es Rob the Ranter.

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